. .
. On Sunday, after delaying till the latest possible moment for the
chance of passengers, we dropped down the river Dee. The wind almost immediately
failed us; I never saw so dead a calm; there was not a heaving, a ripple, a
wrinkle on the water; the ship, though she made some way with the tide, was as
still as a house, to our feelings. Had the wind continued as when we embarked,
eighteen hours would have blown us to Dublin. I saw the sun set behind Anglesea; and the mountains of
Carnarvonshire rose so beautifully before us that, though at sea, it was
delightful. The sun-rise on Monday was magnificent. Holyhead was then in sight,
and in sight on the wrong side it continued all day, while we tacked and
retacked with a hard-hearted wind. We got into Beaumaris Bay, and waited there
for the midnight tide: it was very quiet; even my stomach had not provocation
enough, as yet, to be sick. In the night we proceeded: about two o’clock a
very heavy gale arose; it blew great guns, as you would say; the vessel shipped
water very fast, it came pouring down into the cabin, and both pumps were at
work, – the dismallest thump, thump, I ever heard: this lasted about three
hours. As soon as we were clear of the Race of Holyhead the sea grew smoother,
though the gale continued. On Tuesday the morning was hazy, we could not see
land, though it was not far distant; and when at last we saw it, the wind had
drifted us so far south that no possibility existed of our reaching Dublin that night. The captain, a good man
and a good sailor, who never leaves his deck during the night, and drinks
nothing but butter-milk, therefore readily agreed to land us at Balbriggen; and
there we got ashore at two o’clock. Balbriggen is a fishing and bathing
town, fifteen miles from Dublin, – but
miles and money differ in Ireland from the English standard, eleven miles Irish
being as long as fourteen English. .
.

To my great satisfaction, we had in our company one of the most
celebrated characters existing at this day; a man whose name is as widely known
as that of any human being, except, perhaps, Bonaparte! [1]

He is not above five feet, but, notwithstanding his figure, soon
became the most important personage of the party. ‘Sir,’ said he, as
soon as he set foot in the vessel, ‘I am a unique; I go anywhere, just as
the whim takes me: this morning, sir, I had no idea whatever of going to Dublin; I did not think of it when I left
home; my wife and family know nothing of the trip. I have only one shirt with me
besides what I have on; my nephew [2] here, sir, has not another shirt to his back: but
money, sir, money, – anything may be had at Dublin. ‘Who the devil is this fellow? thought I. We talked of
rum, – he had just bought 100 puncheons, the weakest drop 15 above proof: of the
west of England, – out he pulls an Exeter newspaper from his pocket: of bank
paper, – his pocket-book was stuffed with notes, Scotch, Irish, and English; and
I really am obliged to him for some clues to discover forged paper. Talk, talk,
everlasting; – he could draw for money on any town in the United Kingdoms; ay,
or in America. At last he was made known for Dr. Solomon. [3] At night I set upon the doctor,
and turned the discourse upon disease in general, beginning with the Liverpool
flux – which remedy had proved most effectual – nothing like the Cordial Balm of
Gilead; at last I ventured to touch upon a tender subject – did he conceive Dr.
Brodum’s [4] medicine to be at all analogous to his own? ‘Not in
the least, sir; colour, smell, all totally different: as for Dr. Brodum, sir, –
all the world knows it – it is manifest to everybody – that his advertisements
are all stolen, verbatim et literatim, [5] from mine. Sir, I don’t think it worth while to
notice such a fellow.’ But enough of Solomon, and his nephew and successor
that is to be – the Rehoboam [6] of Gilead – cub in training.

Mr. Corry is out of town for two
days, so I have not seen him. The probability is, Rickman tells me, that I shall return
in about ten days: you shall have the first intelligence; at present I know no
more of my future plans than that I am to dine to-day with the secretary of the
Lord Lieutenant, [7] and to look me out a lodging first.

But you must hear all I have seen of Ireland. The fifteen miles
that we crossed are so destitute of trees, that I could only account for it by a
sort of instinctive dread of the gallows in the natives. I find they have been
cut down to make pikes. Cars, instead of carts or waggons; women without hats,
shoes, or stockings. One little town we passed, once famous, – its name Swords;
it has the ruins of a castle and a church, with a round tower adjoining the
steeple, making an odd group; it was notoriously a pot-walloping borough: [8] and for breeding early ducks for the London market, the
manufactory of ducks appeared to be in a flourishing state. Post-chaises very
ugly, the doors fastening with a staple and chain; three persons going in one,
paying more than two. The hotel here abominably filthy. I see mountains near
Dublin most beautifully shaped, but
the day is too hazy. You shall hear all I can tell you by my next. I am quite
well, and, what is extraordinary, was never once sick the whole way.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Edith, God bless
you! I do not expect to be absent from you above a fortnight longer.

[8] Swords returned two MPs to the Irish House
of Commons until its abolition in 1800. It was one of only ten Irish
boroughs that had a potwalloper franchise, i.e. any householder with a
hearth big enough to boil a pot could vote. Despite (or because of) this
relatively wide franchise, the borough had a reputation for
corruption. BACK